


lacrimosa

by strangelysweet



Series: mutually assured destruction [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Actual Murder, Attempted Murder, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Fantasizing, Hate to Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, References to Mozart, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Tension, aka everything gets fucked up, akechi goro is a fucking music nerd, innapropriate use of firearms, interrogation room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25356298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangelysweet/pseuds/strangelysweet
Summary: It isn't fair. This kind of destruction never is. He lunges, pinning Akira to the table. The boy chuckles in surprise, bent backward over the table. He looks up at Goro, his unruly hair spread out like a halo around his head."Usually, you're into a slower start. No foreplay today?" He taunts, his leg sliding up between Goro's thigh."Shut up!" He hisses, slamming Akira's wrists against the table. "You don't get to taunt me. I should be taunting you, with a gun to your head."Akira looks up at him, eyes blazing defiantly. "But you're not."----They've come this far, he might as well finish it.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Series: mutually assured destruction [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836274
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	lacrimosa

The hallway is empty, save for one stammering guard who steps out of the way as soon as Goro asks him to. He steps into the interrogation room, looking around at the dreary, gray walls in disdain. He never liked this room. Smelt too much like blood and metal. Reflexively, he takes the safety off of his gun, aims it at the guard's head, and shoots a bullet into his thick skull. Blood and muscle splatters against the wall, the man falling to the floor with a dull thud. 

Goro nudges the guard to the side, examining, after a few seconds, how the body disintegrates. Laughing humorlessly, he looks at the boy sitting at the table in front of him. Of course, this is the defense they put up. He should have known. No matter. This can act as his warm-up. The boy stares back, a blank slate. 

The Akira that Goro knows would never look at him like that. He shoves the gun into the cognition's forehead, pressing hard enough to ease a whimper from his mouth. He frowns. Akira wouldn't have made that sound, either. He trails the gun along the side of the cognition's face, examining every detail that Sae got correct. He has to give it to her, that woman is nothing if not meticulous. 

Staring down the barrel of the gun, the cognition gazes up at Goro with an expression close to fear. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, sliding the pistol underneath Not-Akira's chin. Slowly, gently, he tips the cognition's face upwards, making sure he doesn't look anywhere but at Goro. He considers this practice. 

"Akechi-kun, _please_ ," Not-Akira begs. Goro raises an eyebrow. 

Never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine this happening. 

That's a blatant lie. Of course, he imagines Akira on his knees, gazing up at him with those _eyes_ , and doing more than just begging. Goro relishes the way Not-Akira's lips tremble, sliding a hand into his unruly curls. He doesn't say anything. There's no point. This is nothing but a cognition, and the real Akira is probably twiddling his thumbs in reality. He should get this over with and pay the boy a visit. 

He's fantasized about this moment from the minute Akira pinned him against the wall in a closet, holding what he wanted just out of his reach. This is his revenge. Goro swore to destroy him, to leave the bitter taste of him in Akira's mouth everywhere they went, then leave him. Bloody and cold in an equally bloody and cold room. 

Not-Akira certainly is a work of art. Goro is standing far too close, near enough to see each brushstroke. This isn't the first time he's been this close, but it was a different painting. This version of Akira was a mere study. Nothing like the original. 

The gun slides along Not-Akira's bottom lip gently, tauntingly. The real Akira would have smiled into it, let his teeth shine against the metal. Not-Akira only shivers, dark eyes pleading. There is a dark bruise around his cheekbone, marring the pale skin like an ink stain. Removing his hand from the cognition's dark hair, Goro cradles his cheek in his gloved hand. Slowly, painfully, he presses his thumb into the bruise. Not-Akira gasps, struggling against the handcuffs. He's chained to the table. It's a rigged game, shooting a boy handcuffed to a table. Goro doesn't care, pressing his thumb harder into the wound. 

A ripple of satisfaction trickles down his spine, and his back threatens to arch at the sight of this lookalike staring up at Goro. He doesn't let it. The tension builds up like a coiled spring, the sight of Not-Akira's eyes blown wide and his lips slightly parted winding him up like a toy clock.

"Please." He breathes again, his skin warm underneath Goro's glove. 

Goro leans down, sliding a hand into his hair again. "It's a shame you're not the real thing. I would have killed to see Akira do this, you know." 

He gives the inky curls a sharp tug and the cognition gasps. He shoots him straight through the throat. 

Blood soaks the front of Goro's green peacoat, and he places the gun back in the inside pocket. Not-Akira's corpse stares up at the ceiling, a messy hole in his throat bleeding out onto the floor. For some reason, it makes Goro's mouth feel dry as if he's swallowed sandpaper. He stares at the corpse, watching the blood stain the white turtleneck scarlet. Akira always looked good in red, but this sight makes Goro feel faint. 

He waits for the body to disintegrate, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Staring intently at what he's sure is a cognition, Goro grows impatient. 

"Just disappear already!" He hisses, his hands shaking. 

Here he is, covered in fake blood, waiting for a corpse to disappear. The very same boy he swore to destroy lies in front of him, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. It's ironic, really. He should have known, looking back on it, that just as he was tearing Akira apart, he was ripping himself to shreds as well. 

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had a colleague, a rival, of sorts. Antonio Salieri. Salieri was accused of poisoning the famous composer, even though the medical records had clearly stated that Mozart died of kidney failure. Salieri, in his attempt to completely decimate his rival's life and work, destroyed himself as well. 

Goro doesn't know why he's thinking of this now, but Akira's body isn't disappearing, and he's got this strange feeling in his stomach, and the gun is _incredibly_ heavy in his pocket-

The corpse slowly fades away, black ashes melting into the air. Goro releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. The world melts like an oil painting on fire, the lines blurring in a nauseating mix of real and fake. Goro's knees feel weak, and his hands are still shaking, but he makes it through the transition without falling to the floor. 

Goro stands in front of the table, the blood having faded from his peacoat and leaving the fabric unmarred. Akira stares back at him, leaning back in his chair. 

"You figured it out. I thought you would." He says, languidly getting up to stretch his legs. 

He shifts his shoulders, and the joints crack. Goro can't stop seeing the way Not-Akira's eyes faded, staring up at the ceiling. They have the same face. Of course, they have the same face. The same mouth, the same eyes, the same mole underneath his left eyebrow. It hurts to look at him, grinning like a cat when Goro just had to put a bullet in that pretty neck of his. It isn't fair. This kind of destruction never is. 

He lunges, pinning Akira to the table. The boy chuckles in surprise, bent backward over the table. He looks up at Goro, his unruly hair spread out like a halo around his head. 

"Usually, you're into a slower start. No foreplay today?" He taunts, his leg sliding up between Goro's thigh. 

"Shut up!" He hisses, slamming Akira's wrists against the table. "You don't get to taunt me. _I_ should be taunting _you_ , with a gun to your head." 

Akira looks up at him, eyes blazing defiantly. "But you're not." 

Mozart had written a mass for his own death. He claimed that a figure had come to him in his dreams and ordered him to write a mass before it came next. It drove Mozart quite mad. There is something awfully poetic about writing a kyrie for your own soul. Goro isn't sure why this is still ingrained in his head, but he can't help but feel that this is no longer mutually assured destruction. Akira is merciless, his knee tracing the inside of his thigh as he's pinned to a table. The same table, mind you, that Goro covered in blood, not even minutes ago. 

"Goro," He purrs, hooking his leg around the back of the detective's knee, "Was this your plan? Chase me, need me, _love_ me, and then leave me six feet under?"

"I don't love you," Goro swears, both to himself and to Akira. 

Akira pulls his leg taut, and Goro falls forward, leaning over him like a willow tree. Akira's wrists flex under his hands, his back arching teasingly. 

"No? Pity." He says, devoid of the very same. 

Akira's letting himself be trapped. He could escape easily, slip out of Goro's grasp, and leave him to rot in the dust. But he isn't. Akira's letting him have the last taste of power before he kisses it away, spelling defeat with his tongue in Goro's mouth. It's horrifyingly effective. 

"I _killed_ you," Goro mutters, his arms starting to ache from the tension. 

Akira shakes his head, grinning like a wolf. "No, you didn't." 

"I did!" He retorts, hissing like a threatened serpent. "I saw your body bleed out, and I would do it again."

Akira laughs, then surges forward, catching the lie on his tongue. He tastes like coffee, and Goro can't help but drink him in. Akira's legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer until Goro doesn't know what being alone feels like anymore. Foolishly, he lets go of Akira's wrists. His hands slink up to knot themselves in his hair, running over the lapels of the coat that was stained with blood belonging to someone with his face. 

Akira pulls back, running his tongue over his lips. "You wouldn't." 

Deep down, Goro knows he's right. He can't bear to think of Akira's pretty skull blown across the table, the blood pooling across the surface like a red mirror. He _hates_ that Akira's right. The boy smiles up at him, knotting his hands behind the nape of Goro's neck. Hesitantly, Goro places his own hands on the small of Akira's back, letting his warmth seep through his coat. 

Salieri had tried to slit his own throat after Mozart died. Goro had always thought that it was because of the shame. Salieri was haunted, always, by his rival's music playing _everywhere_. Looking at it now, Goro has amended his opinion. The loss of a rival is the loss of ambition. It's removing the cogs in a clock so it never ticks. It's like pulling the wings off of Icarus, only to find that he's carrying you, as well. Salieri's failed suicide attempt was only further proof that Hegel was correct. With the antithesis gone, Salieri was destroyed. 

Akira's deft fingers slowly unbutton his coat, letting the thing fall to the floor. The gun makes a sharp noise as it hits the floor. Akira raises an eyebrow, then yanks Goro forward by his tie.

"Really? A gun? How unoriginal. I would have killed you with just my hands." He purrs, cocking his head to the side. 

Goro glares at him, placing his hands either side of where Akira's sitting on the table. He says nothing. There isn't anything to say. Akira is correct, as per usual. 

Pulling him down further, Akira buries his face in the crook of Goro's neck, inhaling deeply. 

"Sandalwood and myrrh. You kept it." He hums, his lips ghosting the skin above Goro's collar. 

He clicks his tongue. "What can I say? I'm eager to please."

His voice is cold and hard, vaguely threatening. Akira takes it like fire sliding off of a dragon's scales. Nothing can deter the lightning when it strikes the tree. Fingers trace the seams of his dress shirt, taunting him. 

"Then please me." Akira whispers, his eyes dark enough to swallow the stars. 

What else could he do? No matter how far away he was from the storm, the winds would always draw him back. There is no escaping a monsoon. Akira kisses him again, smiling into the corner of his mouth. He has defanged the snake, kissing the venom out of it, reveling in the victory. Goro gasps, looking up at the ceiling of the interrogation room. In a way, this was his mass. This was his requiem, his kyrie, his agnus dei, all in one. Akira's tongue traces hymns into his mouth, eases psalms into his clavicle, and he echoes around the room like an exaltation. 

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't think i'd write a sequel, but here we are


End file.
